Trafalgar Law

Dinner is being had, a bowl before him and a paper in hand, reading over the inane ramblings of whatever gossip fills the World Economy News Paper today.

The bowl is filled with a hardy rice and meat stew that's lazily being consumed.

"...flattery will get you nowhere." Law idly hums back.

"...I might be sick," he confesses with a small frown. "Though minor symptoms conclude if I am, I am no longer in the stage of contagion. Most likely, at least."

Law wants to sink a little, to hide, the notion of curling up somewhere highly desirable to him at the moment.

"It's a sore throat."

"Tired, I suppose." Law hums back with a light grunt. He's certain he's forgotten something now, but it mustn't be important if it's slipping from him.

"Did you need something?"

A slow blink back... and the ominous undercurrent that he might have forgotten about something.

He's not the type to wave really.

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ᡣ𐭩︵ ͜
ㅤ 𝔜 彡 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗜𝗦 𝗠𝗬 𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗞.ᐟ.ᐟ✦
ㅤㅤ 𝔬 ꒱ 𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖗 𝖔𝖋 𝕷𝖎𝖇𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 ꒱
ㅤㅤ 𝔫 ㅤ ︶ ͡ ۫ ·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✹•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ۫ ͡ ︶
𝔨 ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊
𝔬 S͎t͎r͎a͎w͎ ͎H͎a͎t͎ ⠀ ⠀
🏴‍☠️ ⍣ ༝༚༝༚ 𝓒𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 ༝༚༝༚ ⍣

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⠀ ⠀ 火拳のエース | 𝐹𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝐹𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝒜𝒸𝑒

"Going to call the marines?" A smirk. Gold eyes like coins themselves glance over. The more common ones are slipped into a different pocket but a few rare, or ones Law just found appealing, are subtly slipped into the inner band of his hat.

Tucked away for safe keeping to be dealt with later.

someone else? Was this a mistake? An accident?

The flitting thought of poison dancing in the back of his mind, never able to fully be shaken out.

"...Don't tell me what to do." Is what finally bubbles out. But the bowl isn't turned away or rejected.

Not wanting the pain of soup all over him, tattooed hands move on reflex. The bowl accepted, even if Law was completely unprepared for... whatever this was.

He's not against udon. Chewy as they were, it's a more than filling meal. And while he wants to question hows and whys. Why him? Why not ++

Things don't need to be amazing, just edible. Nevermind the surprising amount of foods that can solve medical issues. Tasty or otherwise."

Easy enough for that hatted head to nod in understanding. He too had a grasp of what it meant to have to cook for others. It had been something he had, had to do even at such a young age for someone much, much older than himself.

"Understandable. Cooking for survival is a good skill to have. ++

It's peaceful. Docile.

The sun makes for a nice day, the breeze cool and comfortable. And Law is unperturbed by her presence at the table with him.

A lazy bite of cake here and there, but he's wrapped up in the text held in tattooed hands.

Gold eyes lift at the noise to blink slow. Law's able to read cues enough. The book gently closing to be laid aside in favor of accepting a cup of coffee, as if he'd reject coffee of all things.

It feels like a strange date.

"...Are we splitting the cake?"

"...Thank you." Because someone at least raised him with manners, taciturn as he could be. The book is set aside, dog-eared, to turn his full attention to the tea and cake.

Sweet, sour, and laced with lemon, it's...

"Perfect..." Exactly what he enjoys.

( It's a sigh. Even though Law would say he's just breathing, the low, deep breath in through his nose and out again is a sigh.

He's not surprised.

He does, however, take a single bite of the cake first before sliding the plate at Ace. Knowing it's a lost cause. )

back together afterwards.

( Law doesn't look up from his own stomach, fingers raised and gentle as he scans the organ. A light pinch of the air, an attempt to purge his illness just like he had done a decade ago for something far more serious.

It works. In tiny, dust-like clumps forming. )

to sing without much thought. With a flick of wrist, to lop off that reaching hand in the middle of the forearm where Ace's grabby little paw then floats, harmless as ever and unharmed in turn. )

I believe I said to not touch. Play with your hand for a bit if you need something. I'll put you ++

( In the ROOM, Law is aware of everything. Himself, Ace. Where both start and stop and begin and end, down to a cellular level. He's aware of all they have on their persons, of the ground under them and what's further under the ground as well.

Law simply just knows.

It's how that sword is able ++

Settled down with a slice of lemon cake and book.

Law does, eventually, slink away into some alley. That massive sword tucked into the crook of an arm and starting to pick through all he's stolen.

Buttons and of the like tossed away without care, while his desired prize of coins held up to the light of the sky as gold eyes scrutinize their worth.

If he were not using it to steal, it would probably be considered a magic trick, sure. But Law is most interested in interesting things of circular shape with a few passing glances and nothing more.

Loading up his pockets to be picked through later.

Wandering around, wrapped up to his nose in a high collared coat.

...and slipping interesting trinkets from any little stall he passes into his pockets with a simple sleight of hand trick he learned from when he was a child.

helps to disarm the surgeon's more prickly side the longer he goes.

There's still a high amount of suspicion at the blond on why he agreed to help. But it's not poisoned.

Even if it was, it wouldn't be the first or last time Law would have dealt with that.

"I didn't expect you to be the cook."

Law gives a small sigh of exasperation, as if it were a chore when he'd half asked for it all without asking. But he doesn't eat. Small and slow and measured while content to hunch over the bowl and keep his sword tucked into the crook of an elbow.

It's... good. In it's own way. Domestic. And ++

( She only earns a tired blink. )

If you insist.

You clearly do not know me that well if you think I wouldn't.

...

...tea is a possible solution, yes.

least. But the surgeon's head ducks in, potentially, a muted nod of respect for the food he's being given.

"A small amount should be enough."

It still feels like a debt owed in Law's eyes, even if they've squared it away that it isn't. With a breath, food is accepted, a muted grumble before taking a bite as he does like he claimed he would.

Nibbling on it. Slow and mindful. But eating it all.

There's no thanks given, not spoken at ++

Gold eyes become a dubious glare, "...this feels like a trap."

I'm not an idiot to accidentally eat bread. This was intentional. Regrettably.